“What can I say? I’m a man of simple pleasures,” Trystan laughed, at playing in the mud. (This was certainly not the real extent of his inclinations for letting loose; he had the appropriate reputation in society because his other favourite pastimes, but there was something freeing about altering his appearance just enough to pass by unobserved, and mingle with people whom he might ordinarily not.)

But she would take none of that well, if he said it. Trystan was fairly sure of this, though he had only met her once prior, because this Mrs. Davenport seemed to take no word without grievance, as if everything was a personal attack. She was wary, for reasons he couldn’t yet fathom. He raised his hands in languid surrender to apologise for his interruption of their family outing; he grinned at her question, sensing another opportunity to tease her and be scolded for it, and immediately taking it, undaunted. “Not often, no – but perhaps I should? Now that I’ve a newfound acquaintance who lives here, and might see fit to offer me an invitation.” Avery Davenport was probably no more inclined to invite him for tea than she was to fall in a freezing pond again – but perhaps she would surprise him with a streak of unexpected hospitality.

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